Cravat
by Zwip
Summary: In which our favourite ballerinas attempt to solve a most puzzling mystery of love. -The only peculiar thing was the presence of his cravat.-


**Fandom:** Phantom of the Opera  
**Characters: **Christine Daae, Meg Giry, Madame Giry, Vicomte Raoul, the Phantom Eric**  
****Warnings/Ratings:** I have never written for this fandom before. Ever. Hopefully it hasn't come out too stuffy. And yes, it is movieverse, because quite honestly the bookverse was far too insane for anything so friendly as this to occur.  
**In A Nutshell:** The only peculiar thing was the presence of his cravat.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Phantom of the Opera, although that would be highly amusing.  
**Dedicated To:** My darling Anna, for whom I will always manage to gigglesnort, even as she makes me write for strange fandoms. There will always be Houston for us, baby.

It was an unbearably hot day, the sort where the sun beams down as if in revenge for all of the cloudy, pleasant days that it was hidden away.

Even in the grand opera house, the elegant ballerinas were sweaty like corpulent, old men, stripped of their stockings and considering peeling off their leotards, stretched out on the cool floor to dissipate body heat. The only thing stopping them was the visit of the dashing young vicomte, who was speaking with the exasperated and oft-abused conductor.

The fashionable man was feeling the heat, too, his face flushed and sleeves rolled up to the elbows, jacket off and socks rolled down. The only peculiar thing was the presence of his cravat.

His neck must have been scorching, beads of sweat rolling down it into the marvelous ruffles of his white accessory, but he didn't pull at it even once.

"Perhaps he's using it to collect the sweat?" Meg suggested as he passed them.

"I should think he's hiding something," Christine replied, craning her neck in keen interest.

"Is that to say you're privy to some insider information?"

"Don't say such things; you know that our relationship didn't develop properly in that fashion."

"My apologies." Although Raoul and Christine were still on friendly terms, it was still improper to remind the prima donna of their failed romance.

"However, I _am_ quite curious; I've not heard any news of a new love interest whatsoever."

"Nor have I."

"It is also a little impertinent to be gossiping about our patron, with him no less than ten meters away." Madame Giry gave them the stink-eye.

"Our apologies, maman," Meg bowed her head.

"I am not the one who needs them," she chided, then disappeared to chastise other unruly members of the crew.

"There may be a way of finding out, however… are you up for a bit of mischief?" Christine grinned at her friend.

"Most certainly."

…

"Raoul, it's been far too long! Why don't you visit the opera house more often?" The vicomte neglected to mention that he _had_ been visiting quite often, just not in the daylight hours.

"I'm sorry little Lotte, I've had much to do as of late." He patted the top of her head fondly.

"May I suggest something, between friends and former lovers?"

"But of course."

"I'm not too terribly appreciative of that cravat of yours." She quickly yanked it off his neck, prepared to toss it to Meg.

The bruise stopped her.

It was a horrid, angry red-purple colour, and extremely large.

Taking advantage of her shock and snatching the damp fabric back, he settled it on his neck once again.

"I… I got in a fight," He explained.

"Bruises from fights don't look like _that_."

"It was a vicious animal."

"What _was_ it?"

"A… swan."

"A swan?" Christine could barely resist laughing.

"Clearly, mademoiselle, you've no idea of the seriousness of this situation."

"So it would seem." She giggled.

"Good day, my lady." He bowed.

"Good day." She curtsied.

As soon he'd walked far enough out of hearing range, she ran to Meg. "Did you _see_ that?"

"Yes. I don't believe it was the work of a swan, either."

"Perhaps not even the work of a woman. It would make a terrible lot of sense…" She recalled a few passionless, awkward embraces.

"Perhaps it was Catherine; she has a rather large mouth…"

…

"Sorry, girls, I can't say I've been with him." The overheated woman sighed. "I wish it were so, though…"

"Ah, but don't we all…" Marie supplied.

"So, have any of you…?" Christine asked, a little flustered. The ballerinas shook their heads.

"There is Helene, from the crew…"

…

"Nah, he ne'er comes back here, less do som'in like that with one 'er us." Christine nodded.

"I can't think of anyone who could have made it, except for, possibly, one of the singers." Meg tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Well, he has proved to take a liking to them."

…

"No one? In all of the chorus?"

"I'm afraid not. We rarely see the vicomte, and he doesn't ever take particular interest in any of us." There was a hint of latent jealously in her voice, probably a dreg from the Christine's brief affair from the highly eligible bachelor.

"Might it have been Christophe?"

"No, Christophe is in an engagement with an absolutely charming young lady."

"Thank you very much for your help!"

"Good luck with your search!"

…

"I can't think of any other people." Christine sighed.

"Well, surely a smart young man such as the vicomte would be able to find a lover out of the opera house under his patronage."

"I supposed so."

"Someone may have lied to us."

"There is that."

"Don't fret, now, it's hardly a matter for us to pry into."

"It was rather rude of us to inquire so boldly to begin with."

"Seeing how he's such a large figure, he will have to take his relationship public eventually, provided it lasts so long."

"But I'm still so curious!"

"Aren't we all?"

They giggled and settled for practice instead.

…

Raoul was on the dangerous swan again.

"A swan, you said? You were attacked by a swan?" Deep, melodic laughter floated through the underground lair. "I'm pleased you think so highly of me."

"I would rather not converse about it, if you would be so kind."

"I am not a man renowned for kindness."

"Indeed."

The vicomte arose and dressed. Thankfully, the cave-like living space was cool, unlike the opera house above. He climbed into the gondola, preparing to take one of his customary paths through the subterranean labyrinth so that he may reach the street outside and return to the day world of the magnificent edifice.

"And vicomte, dearest patron?"

"Yes, my… _angel_?" Raoul gritted through his teeth.

"Have fun at work with that." He gestured with one of his long-fingered, gloved hands at the ugly blotch spreading on his young lover's neck, said young lover pulling his collar and muttering something about borrowing Christine's cosmetics.

"Don't forget who's paying your salary, Erik."

"Ah, I must say, the regular payment is quite… pleasant. Oh, you wouldn't happen to have been talking about _money_, would you? Not quite so necessary for a character like myself."

Raoul, with an angry flush to match to mark of love on his neck, choked out, "I shall be taking my _leave_ now," before ducking into the gondola and speeding away from the night as fast as possible.

"Yes, yes," the phantom muttered, not looking up from his newest masterpiece. He thanked _his_ angel that he didn't have to make public appearances.

* * *

I haven't proofread this more than once, so I'm afraid there may be several errors, but I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.


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